Dreams and reality
by Arianka
Summary: About dreams and hopes in Sherlocklike style. The events from "The empty hearse", with Serbia, lots of angst, Holmes brothers and emotions. Two-shot. Translation of my Polish story.
1. Chapter 1

This story is set during The empty hearse. It was partially written shortly after the air date of this episode, because I felt it was far too fluffy and happy, and that there was more angst under all the jokes they served us.

As usual, the story was originally written in Polish, but **hatondog **rushed me a bit by reading via google translate. I do hope my translation is a bit better :)

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**Dreams**

„Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Than sounded good, too good... Despite his current situation, Sherlock smiled to himself. The holiday is over, time to come back... Only why did he start to hear Mycroft's voice, instead of John's? And to see him as well? And what's more important, why he started to see and hear Mycroft, who said exactly what Sherlock wished to hear, instead of reprimanding and humiliating him? Was it really this bad with him? No, it wasn't, he had just made his torturer run to catch his unfaithful wife...

The keys clang, the lock cracked and Sherlock fell forward like a bag of potatoes. He didn't even have time to reach out his arms, stiff and numb from shackles. Hitting the floor was painful, but the coolness of the concrete – somehow refreshing. Next thing Sherlock registered was that someone caught him by hair and hissed into his ear in English.

"A little cooperation would be much appreciated, brother mine."

Yeah, that was definitely Mycroft, who just twisted his wrists and tied them brutally on his back, not paying any attention to the burning abrasions and cuts from the previous shackles. A single thought came to Sherlock's mind, foggy from the pain and lack of sleep, that his brother had found him and was probably going to take him from here, so he should listen and let Mycroft act. Not that he had much choice.

For a person who spent most of his life behind a desk, Mycroft surprisingly easy pulled Sherlock up and pushed front of him, forcing him to move his legs, and at the same time preventing him from falling with a tight grip. The younger Holmes came obediently.

Mycroft kept hissing orders in Serbian, using that irrefutable tone Sherlock hated so much. He still kept pushing him, half naked directly into the open air, sometimes hitting him right in the fresh wounds on his back, but the detective kept walking, suppressing moans and trusting his brother, for the first time in two years letting someone else act.

It wasn't very cold outside, but Sherlock started shaking, as soon as he felt the first gust of wind. He moaned in protest, when his brother jerked his overstretched arm too much, but Mycroft just ordered him to shut up, muttering invectives about the director of this place and threatening the boy who led them, that his supervisors will certainly hear about all the incompetence. Comparing to what Sherlock had heard in the past few days, Mycroft had rather poor vocabulary when it came to cursing, but it was enough for the frightened boy to open one of the cars and ran to open the gate.

Sherlock was brutally pushed on the back seat of some ancient looking jeep, and Mycroft sat behind the wheel. From all the absurd things Sherlock could think of right now, he concentrated on the fact that it was fifteen years since he last saw his brother driving. He didn't even know if Mycroft could do that legally, but he didn't really care. The older Holmes turned on the engine and the jeep rolled on a painfully bumpy road.

xxx

Legwork. The worst that could have happened to him. Leaving England. The noise. The people. Smuggling into the enemy's hideout. Dirt. Smell.

Nightmare.

Mycroft hoped that Sherlock would appreciate his effort, though he didn't really expect his little brother to verbalize his gratitude. For now, the only thing he heard were muffled groans from the back seat, when the car jumped on something that shouldn't be called a road. The Holmes knew that the journey was far from pleasant, but because everything went according to plan, he wanted to get some distance before stopping to untie Sherlock and cover him with something, as the car didn't have heating even in its best times.

"Mike?" croaked Sherlock. "Not good..."

Not good indeed. Sherlock hadn't called him this way since he was six. Mycroft glanced at him through the mirror, but didn't see much in the darkness.

"We've got an hour drive to make, Sherlock, do try to..." Mycroft stopped, when he heard that Sherlock had just emptied his stomach, if he had anything to vomit. Oh, so it was this kind of 'not good'...

The older Holmes sighed and stopped at the side of the road, only a bit more bumpy. He got out of the car and untied Sherlock, who curled on the back seat.

"You're free," said Mycroft, reaching to the trunk for a jacket he placed on his brother's back. "You can sleep."

"Mmm... Mike..."

"Sleep." Mycroft wasn't sure whether Sherlock fell asleep or lost consciousness, but right now the best thing he could do was to get back to his quarters, where he had people qualified enough to help Sherlock.

The drive, despite Mycroft's wishes, took them almost one and half an hour, mostly because Holmes couldn't trust the car and drive faster. He was worried that the vehicle could broke at any moment, which would be extremely unfortunate. It was better to drive slowly. As long as Sherlock slept and didn't feel the journey, they could drive.

When they were close, Mycroft called his people and had them waiting with a doctor. Because of the current situation in London and the threat of a terrorist attack, he wanted Sherlock to be up and about as soon as possible. So as soon as he stopped the car, two people took Sherlock on a stretcher.

xxx

He was laying flat on his stomach, which made breathing through his stuffy nose impossible. His throat was dry and it cost him a lot to prevent himself from coughing. Sherlock froze, not wanting to show that he was awake. His current position gave him a bit of rest, but the relief was only fleeting. Then came panic, when someone started... Undressing him? God, why? What did they want to do?

He laid, hair falling on his face, covering it almost completely, so Sherlock dared to open his eyes a bit. His gaze was foggy, but he noticed a man in sheepskin coat and fur hat.

Someone ran something through his back and Sherlock impulsively tried to roll over, scared by the change of scenery and his torturers' actions, but a pair of strong hands stopped him. Why had something changed? What did they want to do to him this time?

"You know, you could cause us no more trouble, little brother," he heard a voice that undoubtedly belonged to Mycroft. Only now did Sherlock recall the escape and the car ride. So it wasn't a dream, after all...

The man, who, as it turned out, prevented him from falling from the stretcher, helped him up. Sherlock wanted to say something, but only started coughing. Someone gave him a glass of water and the detective drank hungrily, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs and cramps in his stomach, he drank first water in the last few days, that wasn't rusty and awful, that didn't taste of chlorine and dirt.

"Maybe it's the clothes, but you seem to put on weight since I last saw you," Sherlock croaked after a while, when he calmed his breathing.

"Oh, yes, I need to get changed, my clothes seem to disturb you," retorted Mycroft, perfectly reading his younger brother's reactions.

Sherlock didn't reply, just crossed his arms tightly around his chest, partly because he was cold, partly to do anything with the agonizing pain in his side. He didn't have to look to know that his left side ribs were covered in one big bruise.

"Do you have a bathroom in here?" Sherlock asked and rose slowly, glad that his legs were strong enough to keep him upright. The last thing he wanted now was to be caught again by Mycroft. "I need to wash."

"Doctor Harris, I'm leaving him in your hands," said Mycroft. "Do whatever you need to make him able to travel. London is waiting."

"Sure," nodded the doctor. Though he was an elder man, he was strong and probably wouldn't have problems with holding Sherlock, should the need occur. "Sherlock, right?" he asked. "Come on, we will do something with all that," he added warmly.

Sherlock allowed to be led to the bathroom, where doctor Harris helped him get rid of the remains of his clothes and get into shower. London is waiting... Sherlock clung to that words as hard as to the wall to keep himself on his feet under the water. The wounds on his back burned, but the water was hot, warmed him and washed all the dirt of the last few days. Even his stomach wasn't so clenched anymore, though Sherlock still kept one hand protectively around his side. He must have overstretched some muscles when he struggled in shuffles, but the arm was more or less usable.

Until today, he was sure it was impossible to sleep while standing, but right now Sherlock drifted between sleep and reality, when the doctor dried him and led him wrapped in a towel back to the room.

London, he was going back to London... He knew there was nothing to stop him now, he would meet John again... Recently he started to hear his friend's voice more often in his head, it was high time he saw him for real. John will be delighted, Molly will be glad to see him... He hadn't been in touch in the last two years, it was safer for him to cut himself form everything he knew and missed... Until he got used to the fact that he kept hearing his friends' voices in his head, mostly John's, when it was bad, dangerous, scary... Just to feel a little more safe.

"Did you eat anything?" asked the doctor, cleaning one wound after another. Sherlock sat on the bed, leaning forward and helping with less hurting hand to prevent himself from falling.

"No, since they caught me," he answered, because turning his head would only increase dizziness. "They gave me water when I passed out... Awful water."

"When did you eat?" inquired doctor Harris further. "It's 30'th October," he hinted.

"It'll be three days," muttered Sherlock, trying to convince himself that he didn't feel dizzy.

"Not good... Never mind, we'll deal with it."

The unnecessary optimism and care of the doctor were a bit irritating, but Sherlock didn't object. He let him take care of all the wounds, at the same time seeing John and imagining, how he would do that. He would probably be more rough and angry that Sherlock got in trouble...

It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sherlock drifted, he didn't fall asleep or pass out only because doctor Harris was still doing something around him, touching, hurting and bringing relief. He also kept talking, but the detective didn't pay attention. He go warmer in a shirt, too big for him, so probably Mycroft's, and he drifted completely. Therefore he gasped, eyes wide open, when he suddenly felt a needle in his elbow.

"Shhh, calm down, it will help," said the doctor reassuringly and Sherlock realized it was just a IV drip. "You're dehydrated, and my guess is that right now you'd like to sleep, not eat. It will be just ok for the flight."

"Mhmmmm..."

"No, not yet, you can sleep soon enough in the plane." Doctor Harris forced him to get up. "Your brother is waiting for you."

What? Oh, yes, the plane... London... Sherlock walked on shaky legs, feeling more and more numb. It was a bit better, probably the IV had some painkillers, but all he wanted to do right now was to lie down and sleep. Only the fact that the doctor kept talking and forced him to reply prevented Sherlock from falling asleep during the car ride to the plane.

Mycroft was indeed waiting inside, his laptop on a small table. When he saw Sherlock climbing up the stairs, he got up and caught his elbow. He led his younger brother to the back of the plane, where were a few narrow beds. From the conversation Mycroft had with the doctor Sherlock caught only something about the necessity of x-raying his ribs, but it wasn't important now. The priority was to find the most comfortable position possible and restart.

"Sherlock? Brother?" Mycroft leaned over him, when Sherlock decided that his right side was better to sleep on and curled on the narrow bed.

"Mmm?"

"Doctor Harris and I will be at the front. Just call us if you need something."

xxx

The flight went without any problems. Sherlock slept the whole journey, too exhausted to care about any inconvenience. Mycroft waited until they landed and woke his brother to help him move to the car. Though neither of Holmes said a word, they were both relieved they got back to England. For Mycroft it was the end of legwork in a foreign country with the risk of exposure. The older Holmes suspected that a lot of work waited for him after his week-long absence, so he wanted to beck in his office as soon as possible.

As for Sherlock... For now, it was a success that he managed to walk and kept his breakfast. Then he remained silent, staring through the window with his foggy eyes, as they rode to London. Because doctor Harris insisted on making additional examinations, Mycroft left them both in the hospital, and went to office. For the time being, he didn't have to worry about his brother; one phone, and Anthea arranged everything.

Just like Mycroft suspected, the amount of work waiting for him was scandalous. No wonder it was late evening, when he finally managed to clean his desk from the most current problems and read through his emails. Doctor Harris was still with Sherlock in Mycroft's house, just like they agreed, so he knew about his brother's condition. Now, when he finished working, doctor Harris could go home as well.

When Mycroft came home, he noticed with surprise, that there was light in the room Sherlock usually occupied when he stayed with him, and that the window was wide open despite the chilliness of the night. The elder Holmes, concerned with this rather unexpected sight, ordered the driver to come tomorrow at eight fifteen, as usual, and then rushed upstairs.

Despite cold, Sherlock was sleeping on his stomach, poorly covered with two blankets. The small lamp on the desk was on. Mycroft closed the window which gave an unpleasant draft with open doors, and then he pulled the curtains and straightened a forgotten shirt that laid on the floor. Then Mycroft covered Sherlock tightly with the blankets, careful not to wake him, turned off the light and left, closing the doors after him.

Maybe half an hour passed. Mycroft made himself tea and went with the cup to his study to go through his home mail. He had just opened the bills and put them on one pile to pay them later, when he heard a crash, as if something fell down, and then a noise of doors being opened too forcefully. Because there weren't many options as for what could have caused that noise, Mycroft stood up and went to the corridor.

Sherlock was standing in the doors of his bedroom and glancing around the corridor. Mycroft couldn't help the feeling that his brother looked as if he was calculating his chances and watching for the escape route. Only when Sherlock noticed his brother's presence, he straightened and feigned indifference. Mycroft allowed him to do that, pretended he didn't see anything.

"Do you need anything?" he asked indifferently. He came closer to the doorstep and only then did Sherlock react. He stepped back into his room and made a move like he wanted to slam the door, but stopped. He glanced at Mycroft, trying to cover his abashment, and cleared his throat.

"No, I'm fine," said Sherlock. He turned around and went straight to his bed.

Mycroft stood for a moment, uncertain, but then realized it would be best for him to leave. On his way, he absent-mindedly reached to the switch, but Sherlock opened his eyes, as if he was expecting that.

"Leave it."

The older Holmes just nodded and left, leaving the light on, as well as the open doors. The silent plea was well understood.


	2. Reality

So the dreams are gone, time to face the reality...

Thank you all for reviewing and following my story, if you see any mistakes, please let me know, I will gladly correct them.

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**Reality**

The two following days were filled with the atmosphere of waiting. Sherlock slept most of the day to heal his wounds a bit and treat his runny nose. The rest of time he spent on reading the information about the terrorist network that Mycroft had so obviously discreetly left on his desk.

So Sherlock sat and went through the documents, each time falling asleep at some point. It seemed everything was over now, that he was back in England, but somehow he still felt out of place. Already in London, but not yet home. He needed to feel that city again, to get accustomed to the changes, to breathe the car fumes...See his places again, visit his friends...

Only weariness and injuries from Serbia prevented Sherlock from dropping everything, including Mycroft's documents, and visiting John at Baker Street. He felt that he hadn't wandered around the world for two years, to be forced to stay at his brother's unfriendly house and bear his rare company. Mycroft had a lot to catch up after his absence, so he spent all days at his office, and even in the evenings he had something to read through. Not that Sherlock particularly wanted o have a chat and sip tea with his brother.

He couldn't breathe in that house, he just wanted to go out and finally come back, but he had to admit his brother was right when he said that he would probably give Mrs. Hudson heart attack, if he went on Baker Street in his current state. So Sherlock gave himself two days to rest a bit, and then he demanded a hairdresser. Indeed, if he wanted to go out, he needed to make himself presentable.

They sat in Mycroft's study in the cellar, a dark and unfriendly place in Sherlock's opinion, each of them buried deep in his thoughts. Mycroft got stuck in that terrorist problem of his, suggesting that the it was far beyond fun and the situation was serious now. On the other side of the room, Sherlock enjoyed little things. A pair of suit trousers, a new shirt... God, he hadn't had a decent shirt for so long! Even if this one was half a size too big to cover all the dressings, it still fit.

Mycroft had to mention Serbia of course, pointing out in somehow ungraceful manner the fact that his brother didn't verbalize his gratitude. This brought Sherlock's attention to the detail that had earlier escaped his mind. Truly, he was grateful for the rescue, that Mycroft had brought him back home... But at the same time he realized bitterly that his brother could have gotten him out earlier, instead of watching them torture him... Of course, Mycroft had a reasonable excuse and Sherlock would probably accept that, if his back wasn't killing him.

Once the decent atmosphere was gone, there was nothing to do to repair it. Mycroft bored him to death with that terrorist attack, Sherlock kept changing subject. A simple question about shirt, then, when he couldn't resist any longer, a question about John...

Just like the detective thought, his brother had collected all the information about his friend and his wellbeing. At the top of the file was a photo, probably the most recent they had. Sherlock winced at the barbarism in a shape of plain, boring mustache on John's face, and ignored Mycroft's nagging.

Soon enough Mycroft repaid him with simple remain. '_John isn't at Baker Street anymore. He has moved on with his life." _Sherlock was calm enough to hide his emotions under a nonchalant response, but he felt as if someone removed ground from under his legs. What did he mean, that John was no longer at Baker Street? How _could_ he not be there? Sherlock was coming home, back to London, to John at Baker Street, it was all connected.

Then he heard one more thing. Another remark, said in a tone that suited more a chat about the weather, which would be difficult, as the study didn't have any windows. _You might consider that you might not be welcome. _What a nonsense! After all, he was coming back, just like John pleaded, he was going to stop being dead, so how could he not be welcome? Surely it was his brother's isolation affecting his judgment. He had never had friends, and Sherlock had been gone for two years...

No, Sherlock wasn't going to let his brother spoil his joy. He struggled through the conversation and promised to take care of that terrorist problem... as soon as he met John, he needed his help after all.

xxx

He did try, honestly. Maybe it was because all the painkillers Sherlock had taken to be able to function more or less normally, but he came to nothing. Dressing up as a waiter, drawing mustache, fake French accent... All of this was meant to lighten the atmosphere, not to make his comeback begin with a disappointment. John Watson didn't recognize Sherlock, he didn't even look at the waiter who helped him choose a good champagne. The disappointment was painful, but that was nothing compared to what happened next, when the doctor finally _looked._

One hit. John dully hit the table with his fist and Sherlock was ready for a panic retreat. He needed all his willpower to remain unmoved. And then it turned out that his attempts to turn the whole situation into a joke failed completely. Sherlock flew across the room, pushed by John, and he was too paralyzed to even try defending himself. Not that he had any chance to succeed.

It hurt. It wasn't only the fact that the impact from the fall left him breathless, or that his back was a mess of just dried cuts and his ribs slowly turned from purple to green, it wasn't even the fact that someone had to drag him back on his feet before they were shoved out... What hurt most, was that John had used physical violence against him so soon after Serbia.

Sherlock wanted to tell him. He desperately wanted to choke out everything he would never mention in Mycroft's presence, he wanted to share all the experiences from the last two years, that few good ones, and also the ones that left bloody marks of scars, pain and the lack of everything.

He couldn't. He remained silent as they went to the nearest bar, and John went as if he could turn around at any time and hit him again. All the reflexes from that last two years screamed in Sherlock to run away, but all he could to was to follow his friend, desperate for a normal human interaction, because he definitely couldn't call that these few days spent with Mycroft.

And then Sherlock said one word too many, or maybe he said something wrong – John hit him again. And this time Sherlock also didn't make any move to defend himself. A glass went on the floor first, Sherlock followed soon after. This time no one helped him up, as Mary, still surprisingly unmoved by the whole situation, was trying to calm John. Sherlock got up, hiding a wince of pain, because he probably deserved that. Probably – because he didn't know for sure. Right now he had no idea what he had done wrong or what should he do to make John stop hating him.

For a moment Sherlock deluded himself that it got better. They stood in yet another bar, because Sherlock wouldn't risk leaning his back against anything, they stood and talked, and John even answered the question about his mustache. He shouted a bit, but Sherlock saw a carefully concealed smile in his eyes. So maybe John was a bit glad after all? This deceived Sherlock, he allowed himself too much liberty. Sherlock knew that John had missed him, but the doctor wasn't ready for someone to tell him that straightforward. He wasn't ready to hear that from the detective.

This time Sherlock blacked out. One moment he was standing and talking, the next he was laying on the floor and for a long, horrible second he thought someone was going to hit him again and demand answers in Serbian. Only after a while did he realize that it was John's companion leaning over him and handing him a handkerchief. What for...? Oh, right, that warm thing leaking under his collar was blood from his nose...

Mary was intriguing. After Sherlock interrupted John's proposal, she had every right to make a hell of it, even he knew that much. But instead of getting offended or demanding from John to leave at once, she stood aside and interrupted them only when John became too agitated. Right now she stayed with Sherlock and left the local with him, though the doctor had stormed out earlier to catch a cab. She was entirely different from all the previous partners John had had, but then John had never tried to propose to any of them. Interesting.

But before Sherlock had a chance to talk to Mary a bit more, John caught a cab and they both drove away, leaving Sherlock on a pavement with a bloodied handkerchief and Mary's promise, that she would talk to John. Sherlock stood there for a moment, and then went slowly down the street, considering what to do next. Meeting with John left marks, and it wasn't just about his bloody nose, but that complete helplessness when it came to his friend's behavior... If he could still call John his friend.

So what next? Of course, Sherlock could go back to his brother, admit his defeat and try to remember how it was to work in London without John, but today he needed someone who would be glad to see him. He didn't jump just for John, after all...

Molly was first. Sherlock went straight to her, stopping only in a toilet before finding his pathologist, because he didn't want to scare her. He thought that maybe he should have seen her before he went to John, but then he had someone to go to now, when something went bad. Just like then...

At least it all went just like Sherlock predicted. He startled her, because he didn't let her know he was coming, he didn't even text her, but Molly just smiled at him, friendly and honestly, and that was all he needed. They talked a bit and for that moment it was as if Sherlock had never left... Well, almost. The image of Molly from the two years before was corrupted by the ring that irritated Sherlock so much, not because Molly was engaged, but because Mycroft was right yet again. It wasn't only John who had moved on... So Sherlock gave up his urge to tell her in general where he was and where was he coming from. After seeing John he felt he shouldn't... he didn't have the right to disturb her.

xxx

It was a long evening. Long and cold, and even if it had a few pleasant moments, like meeting Molly and Gavin, it left him mostly with the feeling of disappointment and loss. Sherlock stumbled to Baker Street, bitterly remembering his own cheery remarks from the morning. _Go to Baker Street, jump out of the cake, John would be delighted. _And Mycroft's reply, disgusted by his brother's joy. _Consider you might not be welcome._

"Damn you, Mycroft," muttered Sherlock, slowly walking up the stairs, tired and aching. Mrs. Hudson, after the first urge to smash a pan on his head, laughed and cried at the same time, hugging him and commenting his appearance. Sherlock let her, hungrily absorbing her warmth, but the painkillers stopped working, his back was aching, and he was already half asleep on his feet. Tomorrow he would take care of that terrorist network for his brother, today he just wanted to come back home... Which appeared to be not quite possible.

Mrs. Hudson made his bed, still talking and even demanding some answers. Sherlock listened, not particularly caring what, just listening to her voice. As soon as the elder lady had enough and left, he just threw his shoes and coat and fell into the fragrant bedding. He still needed to sleep.

This night every light was turned on at Baker Street.


End file.
